


your knives are sharp when you put them in my heart (though the truth, you’d say, is i like them there that way)

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M, fuck this punkass show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 05:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2720636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>stan has a girlfriend. bill is less indifferent than usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your knives are sharp when you put them in my heart (though the truth, you’d say, is i like them there that way)

**Author's Note:**

> slightly au. assume a 25ish stan and a bill that can easily switch between human and non-human forms. 
> 
> inspired by [this](http://obsidianchameleon.tumblr.com/post/95329791750/mnnnn-suuuper-quick-thing-bc-of-this-song-implied) rad tumblr post.
> 
> ***!!!IMPORTANT!!!*** trigger warnings for mentions of suicide, death, gore, and general twistedness/disregard for human life (thank u bill). also warnings for implied stalking and a very dysfunctional relationship. ***

i.

Bill doesn’t think she’s anything special.

He doesn’t know her name. He could, of course, but he doesn’t care enough. Just like most human beings, she isn’t worth so much time.

Although. She _especially_ isn’t worth his time. She’s a very simple girl. Human in every way. Pretty enough but not beautiful or mesmerizing; warm but dull, boring and not very smart.

Hair like straw and eyes like flowers, she wears lavender dresses and laughs at things that aren’t funny. When she walks, she is graceful and light. The softest breeze could blow her away. 

Why she is the girl Stan has chosen, to Bill, is utterly inexplicable.

 

ii.

After a month or so, Bill takes to watching the two of them. 

He convinces himself he is an impartial spectator. That he is obligated, somehow, to keep tabs on Stanford; that their existences are intertwined even if their bodies aren't, even if Stan hasn't been willing to look at him since, well, the Incident. The Stanley thing.

Stan and Girl in the front seat of Stan's car. Stan and Girl in a cheap retro diner. Stan and Girl holding hands, laughing, discovering each other for the first time. All of those trite things.

In Bill's opinions the dates are grating, boring, almost painful to watch. Stan never used to like sitting home on Saturday nights, like he does now. He never used to laugh at terrible jokes, like the ones this girl tells.

Bill remembers the way he and Stan used to kiss, teeth and tongues and blood, and he marvels that Stan is not yet tired of this girl's careful touches and slow kisses.

(He could intervene, but he doesn't. He could make Stan come back to him, but he doesn't. Not yet.

Something holds him back. Something almost like respect, or care, but probably not because those are things Bill has never cared about). 

 

iii.

Days fade into weeks fade into months, and Bill hardly notices because time is a human construction, something he doesn't care about.

But. He does notice how Stan's life changes.

Bill watches him and the girl build a life together, pull together the pieces of their sad, broken lives and build something maybe a little more stable but still sad and broken.

An apartment with a kitchen and a fireplace. One bed and one closet, dresses and ties hanging side by side. A bathroom with two toothbrushes and dishes in the sink. 

Labels, pet names, monogamy. When Bill and Stan were--well, whatever they were--they had never given what they had a name. Bill had no use for labels and Stan had never wanted them. 

Now, apparently, he did.

Bill doesn't care, of course (he tells himself). It wasn't as though he and Stan had ever made any promises.

 

iv.

_“I don’t trust you.”_

_“Well. You shouldn’t. I could kill you, right now, without even touching you, and I would probably laugh at the way you screamed.”_

_“Why don’t you just do it, then?”_

_“Because, pet, I love to harass you. I like seeing fire in your eyes.”_

_“I don’t think you could do it. Kill me. It would hurt you.”_

_“Have you forgotten? I’m not real. There is nothing to hurt.”_

_“Whatever. I don’t believe a single goddamn thing you say.”_

 

v.

Time passes. 

Bill lingers around Stan's home, pretending to himself he has nothing better to do but knowing, really, there are many other places he could be. Anyway.

Stan smiles and seems happy, but Bill thinks that happiness doesn’t suit him properly. “I love you” sounds wrong coming out of his mouth. Her soft kisses on the cheek don’t send shivers down his spine, don’t burn his skin or make him feel more than just alive. 

Bill knows that Stan was made for other things. Cigarettes and late-night poker games; fist fights and adrenaline and blood pouring out of the mouth. 

(And: for love that is not mere affection. For love that shakes the earth and isn’t so much love as it is impassioned hate.)

Watching him hold her at night makes Bill feel something he isn’t sure how to name. Vaguely warm, somewhat annoyed.

Bill knows that there is no way Stan can feel truly content with such a frail thing in his arms.

He cringes when they kiss, pecks on the lips. And he feels something, deep and burning, when Stan acts as though he is thankful for this kind of stability. 

 

vi. 

Bill starts to fantasize about killing her. He can't sit idly by any longer. He isn’t completely sure why, but he thinks it would be very beautiful, especially beautiful, her blood ruby red and running through his hands.

He could make her death so fantastic. So long. So magnificently treacherous. He could show her things so terrible that she would want to kill herself anyway.

However, he settles for something simpler, ultimately. A well-placed lie. An elaborate setup. Cognitive manipulation and the transformation of reality into his work of fiction.

One of her friends sees Stan with another girl. So does another. So do many. She seems him, too. She forgets how to trust him and that she ever loved him at all.

The fallout is beautiful. Bill watches through the window and smiles as Stan loses the girl with flowers in her eyes. (He was never built for such lovely things, anyway.)

 

vii.

That night Bill waits for Stan in the woods, in their old meeting place, corporeal and visibly present. He knows Stan is going to break through the trees and brush, would know so even without his parapsychic abilities, in five, four, three, two--

Stan grabs him by the collar and pins him against a tree trunk. Bill could fight back of course, but he doesn’t. He loves to let Stan play these games.

“Fuck you, you fucking motherfucking shitfuck.” 

“Stanford! Charming as usual.”

“Suck my dick. I know what you did. Why can’t you just leave me alone? For once in your goddamn life, or whatever?”

Bill smiles, sharp white teeth reflecting the shoddy bathroom lighting. “Because. We both know you don’t want me to.” And Stan is silent, furious and breathing heavily, but silent. 

“That’s what I thought. She doesn’t kiss like I do, does she? She doesn’t taste like the moon and suns. Like a thousand souls.” 

Stan presses Bill against the wall and kisses him hard. “Fuck you,” he says as he eats the other man alive. “Fuck you.”

 

viii.

_“You were particularly good tonight, dear. Really. I haven’t enjoyed anything quite so much since a girl kill herself for me.”_

_“Wow. Nice. Not only a good fuck, but also a hero with a heart of gold.”_

_“Please, honey. You don’t give two damns about whether I’m good.”_

_“Whatever. I steal cigarettes and trick tourists. You jack off to suicide.”_

_“Ah, but that’s exactly why you’re drawn to me. Nobody else’s heart is as rotten as yours.”_

_..._

_“Yeah. Maybe. Yeah.”_  



End file.
